


On the wings of maybe

by JaqofSpades



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, fill the gaps fic, toa rewatch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-15 22:58:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8076172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaqofSpades/pseuds/JaqofSpades
Summary: "Changes fill my time, baby, that's alright with me, In the midst I think of you, and how it used to be."  Moments we never saw, things that might never have happened, but definitely did*.





	1. Parris Island Marine Base, September 17, 2012

**Author's Note:**

> * in my headcanon at least. A gap in canon filled for every episode of Revolution, inspired by The Orgy Armada's 4th Revoversary rewatch. Characters and pairings will be tagged as inspiration strikes, but expect a lot of Miloe, Charloe, and Niles, with the odd OT3 thrown in. I also reserve the right to explore Bachel and Riles in a bid to understand.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bass and Miles play an old, old game.

“You forgot your fucking ID?”

Bass winces at the derision in his brother’s voice, and wonders whether or not to tell the truth.  Lately, every argument they have seems to be about Bass’ girls - they’re too young, too blonde, too silly.  

Too fucking female, Bass thinks viciously, but it’s not like Miles took the confession well.  It took him years to cough that up, okay, and isn’t your best friend supposed to be supportive about this shit? So he’s attracted to men as well as women, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to put himself out there, chase everything with a cock.  They’re Marines, for god’s sake.  Or maybe ...

Is Miles trying make him admit it?  That the girls are just a distraction, sweet as candy floss but just as fleeting?  That while male bodies turn him on, he’s just not that interested in other men? That this huge stone he’s been carrying around for so long, the secret he’s burnt into his own body ... it’s not a sex thing.

It’s a Miles thing, and he’s pretty sure the fucker knows it.  And he’s pushing, pushing, trying to get Bass to admit it, but fuck that.  Because Miles isn’t admitting a goddamn thing, and it’s always Bass who has to give, give, give, and Miles just smirks and takes it as his due, sucker Bass, sap Bass, so-in-love-with-fucking-Miles-he’ll-do-anything Bass.

And maybe it’s  some kind of stupid, but he still has some fucking pride, and they’ve been playing this you-hurt-me, I-hurt-you game half their lives now.  He’s sick of being the one who always loses, and if Miles wants anything to happen, if anything’s going to happen, he has to say something.  Admit something.  And until he does, there’ll be girls, and maybe, if he gets real sick of waiting, other guys.  So ... if Miles wants the truth, he’s gonna get it.

Bass smirks, and falls back onto his bunk, sprawling out in a way that makes Miles’ eyes go dark.  Sure they’re just friends, Miles.  Sure.

“I had it on me when we stopped at the diner, but that cute little waitress ...”

And yup, that twitch at the corner of his eye.  Already twitching.  

“... when she took me out back to lift that box for her?  Think she might have relieved of my wallet.” 

Bass watches Miles relax, the way his shoulders slump with relief in the moment before the cruel glint reappears in his eye.  His mouth is already shaping itself around  something cutting when Bass beats him to the punch.

“But hey.  The blow job was worth it.  Girl made me come like a fucking freight train.”

And Miles snaps his mouth shut, and his hands fist around nothing, and yeah, that’ll be the end of that for the night.  Bass won’t hear a peep out of him now, until the wee hours, at least.

Because that’s when Miles will wake him up, all warm mouth and the need to be Bass’ best, Bass’ only.   And Bass will take the unvoiced apology, because he needs that mouth so desperately, needs the weight of Miles pinning him into his cot and the way he shudders the minute Bass trails his fingers over the deep cleft in his ass.

Maybe tonight will be the night Miles stops pretending, and just lets it happen. Maybe tomorrow, they won’t wake up and pull on their uniforms and go back to being the straightest of the straight.  Maybe pigs will fly and cows will bark and laws of fucking physics will no longer apply.  Sebastian Monroe’s own personal miracle.  Hoo-fucking-Rah.

He’s not going to hold his breath, but hey.  Something weird happened tonight, the Charger rolling to a stop in the middle of the fucking road, and planes just falling out of the fucking sky.  This blackout that feels - more.  Scary, somehow. Like someone pressed a big red button, and they’re all just waiting to see what happens next.

Can’t be any worse than what he’s already been through, can it? Even if Miles is being dick, they’re together at least.  That’s something. And _fuck_ how pathetically grateful he is for that, proof fucking positive that love makes him some kind of stupid.


	2. Chained Heat: Militia Prison Camp, 2027

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She'll owe him for the rest of her life, just for that.

“You owe me,” he says, and it flares ugly, the guilt.  The anger, too, because he should understand by now.  It was necessary.  If it had worked, if he’d been able to do it, maybe none of them would be in this mess now.  But – she had asked.  And he had tried.

And she’ll owe him the rest of her life, just for that.

He’d refused point blank at first.  “He’s my best friend, Nora!”

“He’s out of control.  These are atrocities, Miles.  War crimes!” she’d argued, day after day.  But still he resisted.

“Get ready to move,” was all he said when she pressed him about it.  “We go soon.”

They’d protected as many contacts as they could.  Sent Mia south to Georgia on a fact finding mission.  Stockpiled weapons and gold in places that Monroe would never find them.

And still he resisted.  Until the night Nora said she would do it herself.  A bomb, under his bed.  Not pretty, and yes, it made her heart hurt a little, but it had to be done.  And if Miles wouldn’t …

The lines on his face told her she’d won.  It was killing him, the thought of Monroe dying like that.  The thought of anyone hurting him at all.

“No.  I’ll do it.  Tomorrow night, as we escape.  I go alone.”

She nearly protested, wanted to support him in this - and if she’s honest, see the proof.  Because she knew exactly what she’d asked him to do – Monroe wasn’t just his best friend.  She never deceived herself that’s all it was.  He was her lover’s ex-lover, the love of his life, the other half of his soul.

And she’s just asked him to kill the man.

He’d tried, for her.  And she’d seen him crying in the wake of it, broken.  And that, right there is her unpayable debt.  Asking Miles to turn on Monroe.

So she picks up her brand new sniper rifle, turns her face to the East, and starts the march.  To Philadelphia, once again.

(This time she’ll do it herself.)


	3. Rebel Camp, St Anne, Illinois. 2027.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Jeremy Baker meets an old friend. It's all so dramatic.

“You really don’t know, do you?”

Once he’s done with astonishment, Jeremy has to bite down on the surge of pure glee that swells in his chest.  Suddenly, the too-tight ropes and the myriad of bits that hurt are fading away, even the ever-present threat of death a mere pitstop on the road to this golden moment: devilment, mischief, dare he say it: payback.

“Miles? What’s he talking about?” 

Interesting.  The ingenue, remarkably pretty whoever she is, seems on the edge of tears, voice quavering as she begs.  And Miles – king of the hardasses – might actually be affected.  He’s swung away, hiding his face.  Who the hell _is_ this kid?

“Oh, they were going to find out anyway.  Go ahead.  Tell them,” Miles bites out, but Jeremy knows dread when he sees it.  Not that he’s seen it on this guy before, not in a decade that spanned some truly horrendous shit.  Miles Matheson doesn’t do emotions, and that twitch, right there? The way he looks away? He actually _cares_ about this.

And no, he won’t fucking hide his delight at the chance to see Mr Cool himself sweat a little, maybe even lose it.  Death pales next to the prospect, to be honest.  After everything, Miles owes Jeremy an honest emotion or two, a moment of idle entertainment before they kill him – hell, he owes him a whole lot more than that, leaving him to swing in the wind with Cute But Crazy.  Miles had left, Bass had gone nuts with grief, and Jeremy had been left to pick up the pieces.

Jeremy is many things – debonair, cunning as a fox, disturbingly handsome – but he isn’t fill-the-gap guy.  Especially when that gap is shaped like Miles Matheson, warrior, statesman, superb piece of alpha male ass.  Heart-breaking, piece-of-shit deserter that he was.

Nora crosses back into his line of sight, brow creased with worry, and if he wasn’t a little bit occupied, he’d have something to say about that.  All those years united against the soap opera that was Bass and Miles and not even a hello, sweets?  Guilty conscience, much?  Knowing you, that’s a big yes, but if you think you can use those big brown eyes to keep me quiet, think again.

This was going to be _good_.

He lets the breath flow out of him, then drags it in again until the ropes groan in their bid to contain his truly impressive chest.  When the moment is teetering right on the edge of hysteria, he summons his deepest, most imposing voice, the one that surely would have eventually won him a Tony if the damn power hadn’t gone out.  Theatre was his lifeblood, and damn if this wasn’t the closest he’d gotten to high fucking drama in a long time.

“This is Miles Matheson, Commanding General of the Monroe Militia, damn founding father of the Republic, second only to Sebastian Monroe himself.”  He pauses.  Beat.  Beat.  “ He taught me everything I know.”

His indictment falls perfectly, gasps and cries running around the room, but there’s only one person Miles is actually paying attention to.  The big black guy is spouting something, blaming Nora, but Miles doesn’t take his eyes off the girl.

“Miles?” 

The plea in her voice is agony to listen to, all that confusion and disbelief.  No anger, interestingly enough, not yet, though if he knows anything about Miles’ girls, she’s gotta be a virago underneath.  And there it is – the way she glares at Nora is a thing of _beauty_.

“You knew this – the whole time?”

And now it’s Nora’s turn to look guilty.  They must be friends or something – go Miles.  Funny, after all those years with Bass in Philadelphia, he wouldn’t have thought Nora was willing to share again, but hey.  Love makes you do the wacky.  Not like he can judge, and fuck, now he’s thinking about the three of them together, and definitely not the time, dickhead.  But – Jesus.  They’d be hot as hell.

Miles turns his head and Jeremy thinks he’s sprung for a moment, quailing at the hard set of his jaw, the murder on his face.  Distraction! “This is so dramatic. Do you guys remember ‘One Life to Live’?”

“Shut up,” the General snarls, but then looks past him to lock eyes with the girl, and is that _shame_?  Having his cover blown is one thing, but is Miles actually ashamed of being unmasked as the guy who built a fucking empire? 

“Look, be pissed.  Hate me.  Do what you gotta do. But we got bigger fish, okay?  We trade him in we get outta here.”

And uh, no.  “Won’t matter.”

“Yes it will.  Because like you said, I made the rules.”

A tortured little sound escapes the girl’s throat, her mouth working like a fish out of water, denial and shock warring for space.  Oops, now he does feel bad.  Sorry, kitten.  Such pretty collateral damage.  Probably just as well though – Miles Matheson’s not a safe basket for anyone to put their eggs in.

Ask poor, crazy, beautiful Bass, who still sends scouts out looking for Miles’ favourite brand of whiskey, and sleeps in his bed more often than not.  Who orders Jeremy to meet him there, to slip in unannounced and pin him face down on the bed, fingers already wet with lube.  Cock already hard and hands vicious, and Bass crying out, over and over, begging, except it’s not Jeremy he’s calling for.

It’s Miles, always Miles, and that heartbreak, that betrayal is just one more thing Jeremy gets to hate Miles for.

He almost enjoys delivering the head shot.  Because even now, five fucking years on, Miles is assuming he knows Bass best, can predict exactly what he’d do.  But Bass has changed, and Jeremy was there to see it, and Miles fucking wasn’t.

“The rules of engagement have changed, kitten.  Monroe’s done negotiating with traitors.”

“You’re a bad liar, Jeremy.”

The snort may have been less than dignified.  But Jesus, has Miles has actually forgotten how well they know each other?  He’s not lying, and Miles Matheson knew that the second he opened his mouth.  He just didn’t like the fact, Jeremy chuckles.  Do what you fucking will, Miles.  You’re not so fucking scary.

Except for that one thing.  He never could manage to hate Miles properly.  And he can’t help but think how good it feels to be seen again, to be weighed and measured by that deadly, black gaze.  Bass only every saw Miles, but Miles – so he’s a problem to be solved, right now, as far as Miles is concerned.  But it’s not even the first time Jeremy’s had to face the fact – he’d rather be Miles Matheson’s problem than anyone else’s solution.

And that’s not new and that includes Bass, and hasn’t that _always_ been the kicker?

“I'm a bad liar? Look me in the eye and tell me I'm a liar. So let me go. Don't. I've made peace with my Lord. And when my men come in here and cut you all up into strips, you're gonna have to make ...” and oops, here comes Miles’ fist, pain blooming everywhere, blackness looming from the edges, and the rumble of his voice receding. 

Don’t go.  Don’t leave us again, Miles.

He … we …

I …

(if you were gonna leave, you should have left me for dead)


	4. Lowell, Indiana, 2027

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maggie ponders the difference between Ben and Miles.

She can’t understand how _this_ man is Ben’s brother.  It’s not the lack of physical similarity, the gaunt ranginess of him against Ben’s more comfortable physique, or even the terrifying past. It’s the lack of hope in his eyes, the resentment that’s clearly festering every time he looks at Charlie.  The burden he sees. 

Ben always saw things so beautifully – not clearly, perhaps, but with a lens for potential, and hope.  Maggie still carried her knife and her poison whiskey wherever she went, but it had saved her life, being opened to possibility like that.  Being allowed to choose – a quiet, resigned death, or the simple pleasure of company around the fire, children who might need her, a gentle man with interest in his eyes.

There’s nothing gentle about Miles Matheson, either, not the eyes that raked her up and down with clear lascivious intent the first time they met, or the way he steamrolls Charlie’s expectations, discarding ideas of family and obligation left, right and centre.  For all he wields those swords with surgical precision, he’s a blunt instrument himself, a paean to the effectiveness of ‘might is right’ in this lovely new world.

Strangely, she can’t seem to hate him for it.

She tells herself it’s because they need him, because Charlie needs him, but she can’t deny she’s fighting off a level of … undue influence.  And with Ben in the ground less than a week – it makes her snappy, and brusque because god forbid the man should know the watching him fight is anything but horrifying.

One of the great murderers, she’d called him, and she’s sure all the facts and figures would support the allegation.  That didn’t explain the way the sight of him looming on the edge of the firelight could make her heart slam into overdrive, or the need to make him realise they weren’t lost, not completely, not as long as Charlie Matheson drew breath.

So she explains, tells him about Ben and Charlie and Danny, how they saved her, how Charlie might be able to do the same for him.  Defies her fears to hold steady in the face of that searching black stare, to stand testament, to hope.

He decides to stay, and she’ll cling to that as her legacy, now.  Perhaps she should have … if only …  “please, mummy!” her youngest coos, the rascal, and they are giggly wrigglepots, her boys, their weight pushing her back into the familiar cushions, warmth a delicious, bone-deep thing. 

“Just one more chapter,” she agrees, and starts to read, already thinking, “maybe two.  I’ll definitely stop at two.”

And then she falls asleep even before the first chapter is done.

 


End file.
